In his visit that forenoon to Mitchell’s Alley he had arranged for Mrs. Morganson, his cousin’s old housekeeper, to watch with Torrini the ensuing night.  This left Richard at liberty to spend the evening with Margaret, and finish his correspondence.  Directly after tea he repaired to the studio, and, lighting the German student-lamp, fell to work on the letters.  Margaret came in shortly with a magazine, and seated herself near the round table at which he was writing.  She had dreaded this evening; it could scarcely pass without some mention of Mr. Taggett, and she had resolved not to speak of him.  If Richard questioned her it would be very distressing.  How could she tell Richard that Mr. Taggett accused him of the murder of his cousin, and that her own father half believed the accusation?  No, she could never acknowledge that.

For nearly an hour the silence of the room was interrupted only by the scratching of Richard’s pen and the rustling of the magazine as Margaret turned the leaf.  Now and then he looked up and caught her eye, and smiled, and went on with his task.  It was a veritable return of the old times.  Margaret became absorbed in the story she was reading and forgot her uneasiness.  Her left hand rested on the pile of answered letters, to which Richard added one at intervals, she mechanically lifting her palm and replacing it on the fresh manuscript.  Presently Richard observed this movement and smiled in secret at the slim white hand unconsciously making a paper-weight of itself.  He regarded it covertly for a moment, and then his disastrous dream occurred to him.  There should be no mistake this time.  He drew the small morocco case from his pocket, and leaning across the table slipped the ring on Margaret’s finger.

Margaret gave a bewildered start, and then seeing what Richard had done held out her hand to him with a gracious, impetuous little gesture.

“I mean to give it you this morning,” he said, pressing his lip to the ring, “but the daylight did not seem fine enough for it.”

“I thought you had forgotten,” said Margaret, slowly turning the band on her finger.

“The first thing I did in New York was to go to a jeweler’s for this ring, and since then I have guarded it day and night as dragonishly as if it had been the Koh-i-Noor diamond, or some inestimable gem which hundreds of envious persons were lying in wait to wrest from me.  Walking the streets with this trinket in my possession, I have actually had a sense of personal insecurity.  I seemed to invite general assault.  That was being very sentimental, was it not?”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“That small piece of gold meant so much to me.”

“And to me,” said Margaret.  “Have you finished your letters?”

“Not yet.  I shall be through in ten minutes, and then we’ll have the evening to ourselves.”

Richard hurriedly resumed his writing and Margaret turned to her novel again; but the interest had faded out of it; the figures had grown threadbare and indistinct, like the figures in a piece of old tapestry, and after a moment or two the magazine glided with an unnoticed flutter into the girl’s lap.  She sat absently twirling the gold loop on her finger.